EPILOGUE, SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY. Enters Mrs. Bulkley, who courtsies very low as beginning to speak. Then enter Miss Catley, who stands full before her, and courtsies to the Audience. HOL Mrs. Bulkley. OLD Ma'am, your pardon. What's your business here? Sure you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue I bring it. Miss Catley. Excuse me, Ma'am. The Author bid me sing it. Recitative. Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, Mrs. Bulkley. Why sure the girl's beside herself: an epilogue of singA hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning. [ing, Besides, a singer in a comic set! Excuse me, Ma'am, I know the etiquette. Miss Catley. What if we leave it to the House? Mrs. Bulkley. The House?-Agreed. Miss Calley. Agreed. Mrs. Bulkley. And she, who's party's largest, shall proceed. I've all the critics and the wits for me. They, I am sure, will answer my commands: Miss Catley. I'm for a different set.-Old men, whose trade is Recitative. Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling, Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu, Da Capo. Mrs. Bulkley. Let all the old pay homage to your merit : Of French friseurs, and nosegays, justly vain, To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here. Ay, take your travellers, travellers indeed! Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed. Air. I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day, With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey. Ye Gamesters, who so eager in pursuit, "My Lord-your Lordship misconceives the case." G 2 Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, Miss Catley. Ye brave Irish lads, bark away to the crack, Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack; For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack, When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back. For you're always polite and attentive, Still to amuse us inventive, And death is your only preventive. Your hands and your voices for me. Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring, And that our friendship may remain unbroken, Agreed. Agreed. Mrs. Bulkley. Miss Catley. Mrs. Bulkley. And now with late repentance, Un-epilogued the Poet wits his sentence. Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit. [Exeunt. AN EPILOGUE, INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY. TE HERE is a place, so Ariosto sings, A treasury for lost and missing things: Lost human wits have places there assigned them, |